to make my bread
by chibiaries
Summary: The devil takes care of his own.


"That was really quite careless of you, Sebastian."

The voice is insistent and needling, digs through Sebastian's haze of grogginess like shrapnel under skin. Sebastian makes an attempt at opening his eyes, at sitting up, but the slight movement he makes sends a flash of pain through his whole body, which at the moment, feels like nothing more than a mass of bruised meat.

From his right, Sebastian hears the slow unhurried tap-tap-tap of shoes. When it stops, he has an impression of a dark silhouette looming above him.

Sebastian takes a breath, and moves again to sit up. He bites back a curse as it sends a spike of jagged lightning through his side and adds a couple of cracked ribs to his tally of injuries.

Sebastian swipes a hand over his eyes, turns his head to look at the figure at his side.

"Morning, boss," he says. Sebastian coughs at the tail end of "boss", his mouth dry, tasting of blood and sawdust. He sweeps his tongue around the top and bottom of his teeth, probing at his molars. No broken ones this time. Good.

There's no trace of emotion to be found in Jim's expression, but Sebastian knows better.

He sees the stiff way Jim is holding himself, the waiting silence in his thin-lipped smile.

Jim never stays still, never stays quiet for long. Normally, Jim is constantly on the move, walks everywhere he goes with the easy swagger of a jaguar in his territory. Jim is always loud, always humming or laughing or speaking in that maddening shape-shifter voice of his. Jim is only ignored when he wishes to be.

The quiet that currently surrounds them both like a shroud pricks at Sebastian's mind with unease.

To delay the inevitable conversation, Sebastian shrugs, slowly rolls his neck to work out the cricks, while using it as an opportunity to examine his surroundings. The couch beneath him is an ugly thing the color of week-old pea soup. There's a small table that stands at his elbow with a full pitcher and an empty glass. Across the room is a window, its shades drawn.

Save for the inexplicable violet stain on the ceiling, the room is nondescript, blandly functional as any other number of safe-houses he had stayed in over the years.

"Sebastian," Jim says. Sebastian stops mid-shrug, looks up to meet Jim's eyes.

"I was not informed that there would be two other groups joining us for our little get-together." It doesn't come out as an accusation.

Sebastian knows that Jim sometimes forgets to tell him things. He also knows that Jim sometimes keeps secrets to keep things interesting. He's accepted this for a long time.

And yes, the job did go off fairly well, unlike the last job in Catalonia, which went down as a catastrophic clusterfuck. For this job, only three of their targets are still running around breathing, only because Sebastian had run out of bullets, which tends to be a rare occurrence.

"Three alive. Three loose ends," Jim says. Sebastian nods, because there's nothing else for him to say. It is true after all. Jim tilts his head to the side at Sebastian's lack of response, his gaze considering.

A sudden weight lands on his lower body, heavy and oppressive. Sebastian is unable to hold back the hiss of pain that pushes itself from his lips.

"Get. Off. Me." Sebastian hopes this is one of those times when Jim deigns to listen to him.

Predictably, Jim ignores him.

"Sloppy," Jim remarks lightly, "That's not usually your style, Sebastian." He stretches out the last few syllables—Se-bas-tian-worrying it between his teeth like toffee.

Sebastian makes an attempt to roll over, to push him off, to do something, but he stills immediately at the touch of cool metal over his jugular. It slides slowly under his jaw, teases his neck to rest at a spot between his collarbones.

"Incompetence does not become you, my dear," Jim croons. The knife moves up from his collar bones to the edges of his shirt collar. The first two buttons beneath his collar are already open.

With a twist of his wrist, Jim deftly flicks open three more, tracing down the smooth line of the shirt.

The knife stops then, lingers over his heart.

Sebastian can feel the metal tip resting there, pressing just lightly enough for him to feel it, but not hard enough to draw blood.

If this was anyone else besides Jim, Sebastian would have broken their hands by now.

Sebastian breathes, once, twice. Keeps on breathing. He feels the steel over his heart rise and fall with each breath.

Jim stares at him, his gaze cool and assessing. Sebastian stares back calmly, without fear.

They remain like this for several minutes, still and silent.

Without breaking eye contact, Jim unexpectedly puts the knife aside on the table. He unbuttons the rest of Sebastian's shirt by hand. Makes a soft tsking noise as he opens it wider, exposing the rest of Sebastian's body beneath the shirt.

Sebastian idly wonders why Jim would care how beat up he was, seeing as both of them have seen much worse in their line of work.

"Sebastian, darling," Jim laces the term with equal amounts of sweetness and arsenic, "you, out of anyone, should know how difficult bloodstains are to get out of these suits. Remind me to order you a few more as soon as I can do so."

Of course. For a secret criminal mastermind, Jim is surprisingly obsessed with image. It's difficult working as the world's number one sniper when your boss insists on dressing you up like James fucking Bond. But he goes along with it because Jim sees the whole world as his storybook, and insists on everyone looking their part.

"They also did a number on your pretty face." There's an incongruous grin on Jim's face with those words, teeth bared into something more like a snarl than a smile.

"And here I thought you kept me around because I was useful," Sebastian says, a sneer curling his lips.

Sebastian stops speaking, stops breathing when Jim suddenly slips two fingers beneath his chin with an unexpected gentleness, tilts his head up to peer closer at his face.

In the dim light, Jim's dark eyes stand out in even starker contrast against the pale crescent curve of his jaw.

This close, Sebastian imagines he can feel the brush of Jim's eyelashes against his face, the slightest puff of Jim's breath sliding over his own lips.

Sebastian wants to move closer to him. He wants to move away from him.

"You'll have two new scars here," Jim says quietly. His right hand grazes Sebastian's cheek under his left eye, brushes lightly over his forehead. His fingers are warm.

Sebastian opens his mouth to retort that Jim has never cared about that before, that if he wanted the job done well with fewer injuries he would have offered Sebastian a bit more information, but the words stick in his throat and he breaks into a coughing fit.

Jim moves back, frowning, and finally, finally clambers off of him.

Sebastian exhales. He's suddenly all too aware of the ache pounding behind his head, the cold fatigue of his bones.

"How thoughtless of me," Jim says, reaching for the pitcher and glass on the table, "You must be thirsty."

He finishes filling the glass, and holds it up to Sebastian's lips like an offering, an apology. For a moment, Sebastian thinks about flinging the glass into a wall.

He opens his mouth, and drinks.

Sleep rushes up to pull him under, and Sebastian sinks gratefully into its embrace.

The next time Sebastian wakes, the room is empty.

He sits up, noting that the pain is his body has been muted into a dull twinge. His ribs itch with the feel of new bandages.

A familiar beep echoes around the room, and he fumbles in his right pocket to pull out his phone. He reads:

Dearest Sebastian,

Gone to clean up some business.

Drink your tea.

Sebastian looks to his right, and on the table besides him, he sees a white porcelain teacup, gentle curls of steam rising from the cup's surface.

Another beep echoes around the room. This one reads:

P.S. Your tea isn't poisoned. Or drugged. Cross my heart. :)

Sebastian sighs, and puts his phone away back in his pocket. Pulls himself up until he's sitting properly on the couch and picks up the teacup.

He hesitates for just a second, before taking a careful sip.

The tea scorches his mouth like a kiss, nips down his throat like Jim's teeth, devouring him whole with sensation.

* * *

Notes:

_Fee-fi-fo-fum,_  
_I smell the blood of an Englishman,_  
_Be he alive, or be he dead_  
_I'll grind his bones to make my bread_  
-"Jack and the Beanstalk"


End file.
